A week before college move-in, my son asked that my partner and I not contact him for two days. He wanted no calls or texts from us once we dropped him off on campus.
The ask landed like a hornet. It hurt.
Slowly, I came around to the idea. I realized he wanted space for himself, and I could appreciate that. I also realized that his absence from the house would be an adjustment for me, too. Perhaps his no-contact rule would help me acclimate to this new life, too.
As my son started college, we all had to learn new rituals, new ways to support him, and new ways for us to grow.
I saw my son living on campus for the first time
We drove to his college with the usual mix of conversation, bathroom stops, naps, music, and his video games.
The university’s move-in was a practiced choreography. The campus move-in volunteers materialized. Digital keys activated. Our plan to carry boxes together was replaced by a small army that whisked his belongings upstairs while we tried to keep up.
That night, there was an induction ceremony, which included the presentation of their future graduation tassels. It marked the beginning.
After dinner, my son asked us to drop him off at the quad, and he rushed off to a late campus event. It was our first glimpse of what the boundary would look like in real time. He would step toward his new life, and I would practice stepping back.
The last 15 minutes
The next day, we gave ourselves permission to linger without hovering. Then, at 3:45 p.m., the clock moved from background noise to the center of the moment. My son checked the time and said, “We have 15 minutes for pictures and goodbyes. I have a dorm meeting at 4:00, and I don’t want to be late.”
We took quick photos at the campus sign where we’d posed on our campus tour.
Back in the residence hall, the energy said it without words: families were leaving. RAs stood ready for floor introductions, and doors clicked open and shut. I felt like a ghost in a place that was rapidly becoming his.
There was no speech to make. We had said what mattered over years, not minutes. We hugged without fanfare, and he turned toward his meeting. Three of us had walked in, and two of us had walked out. We did not look back.
I stuck to his request of no contact
The drive home was quiet. The dog slept in the back seat. When we reached our house, an even deeper quiet met us at the door, and it was too much. We called a close family friend and went out for a late drink. We scrolled through photos of our son as a child and on campus.
The next couple of days were the strangest part. We passed our son’s room and paused at the closed door. The dog slept in front of it. We did not cook. We stopped whiteboard family scheduling. Our feelings were layered: happy, sad, proud.
But we kept the boundary he requested. We did not call or text. In making room for him to begin, we made room for ourselves to start again. The two days with no contact gave us time to settle into our new normal, too.
My life looks different now without my son
We have a few rituals now: a dinner on the books with his roommate’s family, a hotel room reserved for the early fall Family Day, and a private promise to answer on the first ring when the quiet window closes — whether it is a text about laundry, a picture from the quad or on the picturesque campus, or the expected “please add cash to my account.”
If there is a lesson in that 15-minute window, it is this: the goodbye is not a cliff. It is a handoff at jogging pace. He did not run, and we did not implode. We all kept moving, maybe with more precision than needed, but toward the lives we have been preparing for.
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